Read Online Yesterday by C. K. Kelly Martin - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: C. K. Kelly Martin
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that makes my breath catch when I stare at them straight on.
“I was wondering if I could ask you a favor,” I say. “Do you think you could help me dye my hair?”
“Are you serious?” Christine’s fingers tug at her own black locks as she stands up next to me. “Why do you want to do that?”
“Because”—I ball up a fistful of blond hair in my right hand—“this doesn’t feel like who I am.”
Christine tilts her head to one side and says, “So how do you want to look?”
“More like you,” I admit. “I want to change my image.” I want the people who only talk to me because of how I look to leave me alone. I want my outsides to match the prickly, shady, mysterious way I feel on the inside.
Christine’s lips curve into a small smile. “That sounds radical. Are you sure?”
As sure as I’ve been about anything lately. I don’t have any control over what’s going on inside me but buying a tube of hair dye and some new clothes is definitely within my power.
“Positive,” I tell her. “The sooner the better. When do you think you could do it?”
“Um … tonight,” Christine says, smiling harder. “If that’s good with you.”
Tonight is excellent.
FIVE
A s soon as my mom’s home from work I ask her if she can drop me off at the mall after dinner to meet a friend from school. In Auckland I had a restricted driver’s license that allowed me to drive around by myself during the day, which usually only happened on weekends when I had access to one of my parents’ cars. We moved back here before I was old enough to get a full driver’s license in New Zealand and now I’ll have to start over from the beginning—qualify for a learner’s permit and take driver’s ed.
My mom looks as tired as I felt after my bad dream the other night but she chauffeurs me to the mall later anyway. Christine and I hit the store where she usually buys her hair dye and the girl at the cash register gives me a discount because she knows Christine. Afterwards we pick out the palest pressed powder we can find in the department store makeup counter along with a brand of eyeliner Christine recommends and I tell her what Terry said about Seth dumpingme. “I guess that’s him trying to preserve his reputation or something,” I add.
Christine bares her teeth like she’s about to growl. “You shouldn’t let him get away with that shit.”
I shrug. “I don’t care what he says. It’s not worth worrying about.”
“I knew he was an asshole,” Christine says, almost to herself.
“You told me you didn’t know him well enough to have an opinion about him,” I remind her.
Christine smiles slyly. “I lied. Not about knowing him but about having an opinion. What can I say? I have finely tuned asshole radar.”
We catch a bus back to Christine’s house with the stuff I bought (the clothes shopping will have to wait for another day) and hole up in the upstairs bathroom where she puts on rubber gloves and parts my hair four ways so she can get at my roots. She starts squeezing the dye onto the back of my head and by the time she’s gotten to the front the chemical smell’s making my eyes water. Christine says it stinks but that it’s never really bothered her eyes. She advises me to tough it out for the next thirty minutes and then we’ll be able to wash the dye out and meet a whole new me. In the meantime she sits on the toilet lid and I balance myself on the side of the bathtub.
Because I’m already technically crying and I’m sort of in the middle of becoming someone else and Christine’s the only person for thousands of miles that I’ve spoken to aboutguys even a little, I impulsively ask her if she’s ever had a déjà vu about a person she’s never met.
“I get déjà vu all the time,” Christine says, “but not usually about people, more about things I’m doing.”
That sounds normal and I stretch my legs out in front of me as I think about the guy on Walmer Road and what he
“I was wondering if I could ask you a favor,” I say. “Do you think you could help me dye my hair?”
“Are you serious?” Christine’s fingers tug at her own black locks as she stands up next to me. “Why do you want to do that?”
“Because”—I ball up a fistful of blond hair in my right hand—“this doesn’t feel like who I am.”
Christine tilts her head to one side and says, “So how do you want to look?”
“More like you,” I admit. “I want to change my image.” I want the people who only talk to me because of how I look to leave me alone. I want my outsides to match the prickly, shady, mysterious way I feel on the inside.
Christine’s lips curve into a small smile. “That sounds radical. Are you sure?”
As sure as I’ve been about anything lately. I don’t have any control over what’s going on inside me but buying a tube of hair dye and some new clothes is definitely within my power.
“Positive,” I tell her. “The sooner the better. When do you think you could do it?”
“Um … tonight,” Christine says, smiling harder. “If that’s good with you.”
Tonight is excellent.
FIVE
A s soon as my mom’s home from work I ask her if she can drop me off at the mall after dinner to meet a friend from school. In Auckland I had a restricted driver’s license that allowed me to drive around by myself during the day, which usually only happened on weekends when I had access to one of my parents’ cars. We moved back here before I was old enough to get a full driver’s license in New Zealand and now I’ll have to start over from the beginning—qualify for a learner’s permit and take driver’s ed.
My mom looks as tired as I felt after my bad dream the other night but she chauffeurs me to the mall later anyway. Christine and I hit the store where she usually buys her hair dye and the girl at the cash register gives me a discount because she knows Christine. Afterwards we pick out the palest pressed powder we can find in the department store makeup counter along with a brand of eyeliner Christine recommends and I tell her what Terry said about Seth dumpingme. “I guess that’s him trying to preserve his reputation or something,” I add.
Christine bares her teeth like she’s about to growl. “You shouldn’t let him get away with that shit.”
I shrug. “I don’t care what he says. It’s not worth worrying about.”
“I knew he was an asshole,” Christine says, almost to herself.
“You told me you didn’t know him well enough to have an opinion about him,” I remind her.
Christine smiles slyly. “I lied. Not about knowing him but about having an opinion. What can I say? I have finely tuned asshole radar.”
We catch a bus back to Christine’s house with the stuff I bought (the clothes shopping will have to wait for another day) and hole up in the upstairs bathroom where she puts on rubber gloves and parts my hair four ways so she can get at my roots. She starts squeezing the dye onto the back of my head and by the time she’s gotten to the front the chemical smell’s making my eyes water. Christine says it stinks but that it’s never really bothered her eyes. She advises me to tough it out for the next thirty minutes and then we’ll be able to wash the dye out and meet a whole new me. In the meantime she sits on the toilet lid and I balance myself on the side of the bathtub.
Because I’m already technically crying and I’m sort of in the middle of becoming someone else and Christine’s the only person for thousands of miles that I’ve spoken to aboutguys even a little, I impulsively ask her if she’s ever had a déjà vu about a person she’s never met.
“I get déjà vu all the time,” Christine says, “but not usually about people, more about things I’m doing.”
That sounds normal and I stretch my legs out in front of me as I think about the guy on Walmer Road and what he
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